


A Glitch at Work

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [28]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Case Fic, Epilepsy, Fit, Gen, JME, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Myoclonics, Myoclonus, Paternal Lestrade, Paternal!Lestrade, Seizure, Seizures, accidental ableism, epileptic, fitting, myoclonic jerks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9522917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: Sherlock is keen to help, and Greg is keen to accept. But in the back of Greg's mind is the ever present threat that Sherlock's brain will turn against them both.





	

“You give the impression you’re some big, smart, lone wolf…,” Greg shook his head and took a drag of his cigarette, “but the truth is,” he exhaled a cloud of smoke, “you’re a mummy’s boy whose fears give him so much adrenaline he can fake it ‘til he makes it.” The mild offense on Sherlock’s face made Greg want to laugh but he masked it well. “Go on, smartarse, tell me I’m wrong in my _deduction_.”

Sherlock took the bait. “You’re wrong in your deduction.”

Greg laughed too loudly, “How?” He took another drag of his cigarette and flicked the ash to the ground. The wind that blew around the balcony was cold, but neither he nor Sherlock had ventured back into the station. Inside, where the people were, was bustling with paperwork and discussion. Out here, in the February chill of three am in London, there was just the two of them and it was better that way. 

“I do not work on fear, I work on _the work_ ,” Sherlock clarified. The wind took his curls from the right side of his head and scattered them across his forehead, redefining his parting to the left, until it took them back again and set them down in their rightful place as it died down into nothing again. 

“Ah, that’s right,” Greg pointed his right index finger at Sherlock and spoke with tight lips as he clamped his cigarette tightly between them. “You get high on this; I suppose it’s better than the alternative,” he and Sherlock shared a quiet look of knowing of the periods of time in Sherlock’s life that would never truly be addressed, but never forgotten either. “You do love your mother, though,” Greg added as he drew away his cigarette and exhaled another cloud of smoke into the cold, navy sky above him. 

“Most people do. Honour thy father and thy mother, isn’t that the adage?” Sherlock tilted his head. “I’m sure that you, too, love your mother.”

“There’s a difference between loving your parents and being a mummy’s boy,” Greg laughed lightly. The cold air was beginning to make his nose sting every time he breathed in. Still, he said nothing. This was too personal, too good, to break away from simply because it was chilly. 

Sherlock nodded his head slowly, conceding. “There is,” he agreed, “I love my mother - my brother Mycroft is a _mummy’s boy_. But we are a close family, in our manner.”

“Because of your...head stuff?” Greg asked him, open and candid, secure in the friendship they had build up to believe Sherlock would not take any offence. 

Sherlock nodded his head, “Partially; but also because my Dad has always instilled into Mycroft and I the importance of sticking together. He is good at reminding us that he and my mother won't be around forever. And Mycroft is good at reminding me that _he_ will be.” He quirked his lips into a half-smirk. “The head-stuff makes him protective, ...the heroin makes him overbearing, but the blood link makes it all genuine.” 

Greg raised his eyebrows, a fan of Sherlock's articulate and almost poetic analysis. “He's good to you,” he said seriously. “You don't always deserve it.” 

“I know,” Sherlock nodded his head. “Believe me, I'm aware of my faults.” He sounded a little cross, and for a brief moment Greg wondered if he had overstepped the close friend boundary he and the young man had built up. “I make no excuses for my behaviour - not where the drug use is concerned, Lestrade, you know that. And I don't hide it.” 

“No, I know,” Greg agreed. “I wasn't suggesting that, either.” He shrugged his shoulders up around his ears. “C’mon,” he jerked his head to the left. “Let's go back in, wrap everything up. Then you can get going if you want.” 

“I'm happy to stay,” Sherlock insisted. 

Greg shook his head quickly, “I may not be an expert on your condition, mate, but I know that the less you sleep the worse you are so I can't agree to that. So let's get everything squared away so you can go home to bed.” 

‘Squaring away’ became further work, which Sherlock remained happy to stay and help with, and nobody batted an eyelid at the thin man’s presence. With Sally long since gone home, and four am close on the clock, Sherlock sat at Greg’s desk with him, scouring through the mountains of evidence that they were hoping to pin down and narrow into the brackets Sherlock had in his mind. 

“Alright, I’m calling time on it for you - Sherlock, go home, please. I’ll get somebody to drive you.” Greg reached out his hand and snapped the photograph from Sherlock’s left hand as the young man sat still, trying to focus, even as his right arm contorted awkwardly in against his ribcage, bringing stares from the two officers sitting opposite him. 

“It’s fine, I’m fine…” Sherlock defended, flexing his hand as the myoclonus ceased. 

Greg shook his head, “But those little ones grow; I know, Sherlock, I’ve been there to see it. Go home, sleep and come back at a decent hour of the morning.” 

Sherlock inhaled loudly through his nose and sat back in his chair. “I want to help.” 

“I know, and you are helping and I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I appreciate your health a lot more. Please, let me get you a lift home and come back when you’ve slept?” Greg insisted, “Please?” 

“Everyone here is tired, Lestrade,” Sherlock twisted his lips, “I shake a little bit and I get penalised.” 

“It’s not shaking, Sherlock, it’s fitting. You’re sitting here, trying to work, and trying to stave off fits at the same time, and that isn’t fair to you - and on a selfish note, it renders you useless to me because you’re not able to focus.” Greg raised his voice, not excusing the officers that listened in despite themselves. He took a steady breath, “Seizing, sorry… I know you don’t like that word.” Sherlock got to his feet, pushing back his chair with the backs of his legs, and pulled on his coat that had been throwing over the back of his seat. “You’ll drive him back, won’t you Robin?” He looked up to the older of the two officers. 

“‘Course,” he nodded his head and put down the stack of photographs that he’d been searching through. “Ready when you are,” He smiled awkwardly at Sherlock. 

“I’ll get a cab,” Sherlock mumbled petulantly.

“You won’t,” Greg stood and pushed his hand into Sherlock’s chest, preventing the Detective from moving as he turned to leave the office. “Don’t throw a paddy because I’m looking out for you.” he warned in a low voice and drew down his hand. “Accept the bloody lift home.” 

“No,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “I’ll get a cab.” He turned up the collar on his coat and reached for the handle, pulling the small office’s door open and strode out into the main office, breezing quickly toward the exit doors. 

“Am I going after him?” Robin asked, looking at his superior. 

With his hands on his hips and his eyes losing Sherlock as he dipped out of the doors, Greg turned to Robin and shook his head, “No, leave him to it.” he admitted defeat. “I’ll just kick his arse tomorrow.” 

“Weird things,” Robin commented, “Them fits.” 

“Seizures,” Greg corrected, rejoining them at the table scattered with images. “And yeah, they are - it’s like his body malfunctions or something.” 

“He safe working like that?” Robin asked, fingering his way through the stack of photographs he’d previously abandoned. He didn’t look up, nervous as to the response he’d receive from Lestrade. Everybody on the floor knew the relationship that existed between Greg and Sherlock, even though many didn’t really work with Sherlock at all. His oddities were well documented, but many - like Robin - rarely got to experience Sherlock, and all that came with him, up close. 

Greg frowned and scanned the man’s forehead, unable to see his face. “Sometimes, other days I have my doubts. That, though,” Greg waved his hand to the seat Sherlock had evacuated, “...it’s the tip of the iceberg.” 

“Thank God he’s as smart as fuck then, hey?” Robin chanced looking up and met Greg’s eyes. 

Greg shrugged his shoulders, “Smart, yeah...stupid, though.” he shook his head. “Let’s call it quits, go home guys, I’ll see you first thing.” He reached into his pocket for his phone, and dragged it out. He opened up a blank text, calling goodnight as the officers left, and quickly tapped out a message. 

**Let me know when you’re home, yeah?**


End file.
